


Donkeyskin

by orphan_account



Category: British Actor RPF, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, M/M, Prince!Tom, Stalking, Voyeurism, i cant tag things, um
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-07-12
Packaged: 2018-02-08 14:05:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1943985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fairy tale AU based rather heavily on the Donkeyskin story.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Donkeyskin

**Author's Note:**

> okay wow i was really into this pairing when i started writing but drifted out of the fandom a bit but still kinda liked it and i thought it was kinda good so i kept going and so this is it i guess??? it just went on a lot longer than i wanted it to so i kinda improvised the ending quite a bit so um yeah sorry. also this is unbeta'd so whoops.

Throughout Loki's childhood, he had been surrounded by riches: grand halls and marble floors, rooms with high ceilings held up by pillars, muscled horses in large stables, and servants to do whatever he asked of them.

It didn't stand to reason, therefore, that they should keep a lowly, overweight donkey in the largest stall in the stable, one with wiry fur, and not enough strength to carry even a small load. It wasn't until he realised that bushels of gold poured out of the donkey's ears as it slept that he began to understand why his father seemed to hold the donkey almost closer to his heart than him.

Life had been going well for the king, until, one miserable day, his wife fell sick. Odin loved Frigga very much, and prayed and begged for her not to die, constantly waiting by her bedside for her to return to health.

But get better, she did not. Her state declined far quicker than anyone had anticipated, and, six days after she became bedridden, Frigga could feel that her death was almost upon them. She grasped her King's hand in her own, solemn smile on her face. “My love, I can sense the moment of my death approaching,” she spoke, voice rough from both coughing and anguish. “I apologise that I could not be with you longer, but I'm afraid I will soon be gone, and, when I am, you must promise me that you will find another spouse.”

Heartbreak showed clear in Odin's face, and he whispered to her, “I cannot do that; I love you too much.” She clutched tighter at his fingers, too warm against her cold skin, which felt clammy to the touch from sweat.

“No, you must,” she told him, mournful. “It is for the good of Asgard. Just make sure they are more beautiful than I, and smarter.” The King agreed reluctantly, looking down guiltily as he did so, unable to meet her eyes. The usually cheerful king broke-down into sobbing as she went limp in his hands, refused to release her from his hold until she became even colder than earlier, and he knew what he held was no longer a person, but a corpse.

***

For months, Odin's advisers tried and tried to convince him that remarriage was the best way to go, using arguments from, “It's what's best for yourself and your children, it may help you move on,” to, “It's for the good of Asgard,” which was all too much like he was reliving his wife's death again.

But, as time went on, the pain dimmed, and, though his love for her had not weakened- he wasn't sure it ever would- he knew he was able to love another. So, remembering Frigga's words upon her deathbed, he asked for portraits of only the most remarkably good-looking and astute people in all of the lands.

However, after over a month of searching, not one of the people he found was both better informed and more elegant than Frigga. Some would match her looks, but, upon meeting them, they did not come anywhere near equalling her wits.

It was not until he looked towards his two sons, Thor and Loki, that he realised who he was to wed: Loki.

Loki, you see, was adopted. He had been found in a wicker basket, hung from a tree with rags, so cold he had turned slightly blue. When Frigga had found him, she carried him back to the castle, getting medical attention for him immediately.

After he had been saved, Frigga had loved him with all her heart, as she did everyone. When they had realised he was a Frost Giant, her urge to protect him and provide him with all the love and attention he needed only grew stronger.

Frigga could not possibly disapprove of him, not to mention that no one could deny his intellect and physical allure. And so, the very next day, Odin commanded a servant buy him a ring, and fetch Loki to the courtroom.

With a diamond ring in his pocket, he sat on the towering golden throne, awaiting the arrival of his husband-to-be, and letting a pleased smile grace his lips when he knelt below him. “Loki,” he greeted. “You know I didn’t take your mother’s death well, but I have decided it is time for me to remarry.”

This news came as quite a surprise- Odin hadn’t seemed all too impressed by any of the people he had met, and Loki and Thor had assumed they would get to meet him or her properly before Odin proposed. Nonetheless, he was happy for him. “That’s- that’s very good, Father,” he congratulated. “Who is it you intend to marry? Has my brother been informed?”

The King’s eyes wrinkled at the corners as his smile widened. “No, Thor doesn’t know, yet,” he replied. “I was hoping we could tell him together.” He stood up, slowly making his way down the staircase leading down from the throne.

“Father?” he asked, uncertain and slightly suspicious, for he knew something was odd about this. “What is it?”

Completely ignoring the words of the raven haired boy below him, he instructed Loki to stand up, silencing him with a raise of his hand when the boy made to protest. Cautiously, the younger man complied. Odin reached into his pocket, taking out the ring. “I will marry you, Loki,” he said.

For longer than was comfortable, both men remained silent. Loki didn’t want to be wedded to his father, because that was exactly what Odin was to him: his father, and nothing more. Frigga and Odin were the only parents Loki had ever known, and his love for them both was completely platonic. Alas, Loki had lived with the King as long as he could remember, and a year or two more- by now he knew that when Odin said he would do something, he would not take ‘no’ for an answer. Loki stared straight ahead, brain devoid of anything other than panicked half-formulated ideas, mainly consisting of him punching Odin or sprinting away as fast as his feet would carry him. Sometimes both.

“Loki.” Odin cleared his throat purposefully.

He mentally shook himself, and gave a shaky smile. “I- yes. That’s- great, Father,” he stuttered, something completely out of character for him.

“Husband, I think you mean,” Odin corrected.

“Husband, yes,” he murmured. “I must go talk to Heimdall. I’m sure he’ll want to hear the news.” And then he did sprinted away, not even bothering to saddle up the black stallion that he rode at a gallop towards Heimdall.

“Heimdall, I cannot marry Father,” he told him, having dismounted his steed. It was easy to see how uneasy he felt; he shifted from foot to foot; one hand was wrapped so firmly around his horse’s reins that his knuckles were even whiter than usual; his free hand alternately tugged at the hem of his shirt and pressed chewed fingernails into the flesh on his hips.

Heimdall looked at him sympathetically, knowing how rare it was for the prince to get into a panic like this. “You must ask him for a tunic made of material the exact colour of the mid-noon sky, or else you will not marry him,” Heimdall directed him, obviously having anticipated this moment. Unsurprising, if you took into account his all-seeing eyes.

Loki thanked him with a tight smile, pulling himself up to sit on the stallion’s bare back. With a final grateful glance at his friend, he galloped back to the palace, eager to tell his father of his new terms. He wrote them down on a piece of paper, and proceeded to pass it to a servant, with the instructions to deliver it to the king immediately. “It holds information about our marriage, run fast!” he had encouraged.

Thor pulled him into a tight hug, having overheard a few maids gossiping and gasping about it, instantly concerned by the lack of struggle from his younger brother. He released him, hand still resting on his shoulder. “I hear Father has asked for your hand,” he told him, evidently intending to speak quietly, so no one would hear, but voice still filling the room like a lion’s roar. Usually, Loki would find it vaguely endearing, but now he hardly noticed.

He nodded, trying to muster up some hope that it would not happen, but unable to even make an attempt at acting as though he were in the mood for caring and sharing. His brother seemed to notice that, patting him on the back with enough force to make him stumble, then excusing himself and telling him to sleep well.

Sleep came unexpectedly easy to him, something which he had been sure wouldn't happen, since he had been proposed to by his own father.

***

A knock on the door awoke Loki the next morning. It sounded like the steady, unobtrusive 'tap-tap-tap' which was the signature of both the maids and servants of the palace. “Come in!” he called, groggily rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

A servant entered through the doorway, smiling politely at him and deliberately not lowering his gaze to the prince's naked chest. Loki honestly couldn't care less whether he looked or not, but, well, if that was what pleased the man.

“The tunic you ordered, Prince Loki,” he addressed him, language overly-formal, but not out of place for a castle worker. “Where would you like me to put it?”

Loki's brow creased with worry upon seeing the tunic. It was a brilliant blue, rather sprightly, and, as much as Loki hated to have to admit, it was the exact colour of the sky. “It has been made already?” he asked, though the answer was obvious. The servant replied in the affirmative anyway, inclined to answer even the most pointless of questions. “Get my horse ready, would you please?” he requested sharply, wrapping the sheets around his waist to protect his modesty as he pulled clothes out of his wardrobe, throwing on the first thing he found.

Eyes averted, the servant nodded curtly. “I will do so right now, Sir,” he told him, bowing courteously before exiting the room, still facing Loki as he did so, as was custom.

***

Loki slipped down from his horse in a practiced movement, and turned to face Heimdall, posture tense with fear. Maybe Heimdall couldn’t help him; after all, he had seemed sure of his last plan, but it hadn’t worked. And what would he do if that were true for this one, too?

The prince banished the thought, and cleared his throat. “Heimdall,” he spoke, far less strong and demanding than he had intended, closer to a pity-inducing mix of scared and desperate. “It didn’t work. What should I do?”

There was a brief pause in which Heimdall considered his Prince’s words. “Ask for another tunic, the colour of moon rays,” he decided, earning an eyebrow raise from Loki.

“Another tunic?” he asked, doubtful of how this could work, if it hadn’t last time. Perhaps having clothes made for him wasn’t the way to go- slaying a dragon would be more traditional and a far more difficult feat. “Don’t you think we should go for something a little more… original?”

Heimdall gave him a piercing look, never one to sit silently at any form of scorn, especially if it was from this particular man. “Do not question me,” he said, not angry or fierce, just… intimidating, forceful.

Though still visibly unsure, he nodded. Heimdall rarely- if ever- failed anyone, and Loki didn’t think he would start now. He mounted his horse once again, and returned to the palace.

This time, it was a different servant who sprinted through the grand halls to relay the news, he noted absently. With any luck, the response, too, would be different. The tunic would be the wrong colour. It would take too long to make, and he could act as if that made him stop wanting to marry the King. Like he had ever wanted to be wedded to him.

He didn’t sleep so well that night; he woke up every hour or less, and most of the night was spent trying to get back to sleep. What little sleep he did get didn’t really make him feel any less tired.

***

Upon awaking, he found a pale silver-blue tunic on the dresser at the foot of his bed, flecked with tiny specks of white like illuminated flecks of dust. It looked exactly like moon light streaming through a window in the dead of night. He must have been asleep when the maid arrived at his room. But that didn’t matter, not at all, not when this meant Heimdall’s plan had failed, that he was just that much more likely to be forced into marriage with the King.

For the third time in as many days, Loki went to Heimdall.

He didn’t have to tell him it hadn’t worked; Heimdall already knew, of course. The left corner of his lip tugged down ever-so-slightly, nearly imperceptible. “Ask for another. As bright as the sun,” he rumbled, which- another tunic? Was that the best he could think up?

“I have asked for two tunics already, one the colour of the sky, the other the colour of moonbeams. What could possibly make you think this miniscule change will suddenly throw him?” His voice was low and dangerous, filled with a very justified unmasked anger.

Heimdall waited for him to finish his rant before replying with, “Do you wish to escape this marriage or not?”

“Yes, of course I do, but I think you can do better than that. My oaf of a brother could do better than that!” he cried, fingernails digging crescent-shaped wounds into his soft palm.

Unfazed, Heimdall looked him in the eye. “And yet you continue to ask me.”

“Because I thought you to be smarter than he,” Loki seethed. Nostrils flared, the prince mounted his steed, booted heels giving a firm jolt to the horse’s sides. It kicked into a gallop, quick enough that it would have thrown dust into Heimdall’s eyes, were there any on the polished bridge.

However, as angry as he was, it didn’t really change the fact that he honestly couldn’t think up another thing. Damn it, he was going to have to ask for a third tunic. Loki grimaced, but entered the throne room anyway, not bothering to kneel at his father’s feet- as his husband-to-be, he was surely past these formalities.

“A fine-looking tunic you made for me,” Loki announced, courteous smile in place. He couldn’t quite bring him self to care that he might be overstepping his boundaries when he asked for a third tunic. “Before we are to wed, I want another. As dazzling and shining as the sun.”

Odin hesitated before nodding slightly. “Yes, Loki,” he affirmed, though he gave Loki a perplexed look. It was the same look Loki had seen on his face a thousand times before.

Remembering that this man was still the father he had once known, he tried to make his smile look more genuine, tried to look grateful before he left hastily.

***

It took almost a week to make the garment- long enough to almost make the prince believe that this would be the thing to prevent their marriage. Not quite enough for Loki to be truly surprised when he saw the tunic, encrusted with diamonds and rubies enough to pay the wages of a small town for a year, all sewed on with golden thread. How wasteful, and how flattering.

Nonetheless, Loki found his hands clenching into fists around the delicate material, scrunching it all up. He sat heavily in the chair at his desk, breathing deeply, calming himself down.

A large hand rested comfortingly on his shoulder, impelling him to straighten up, once again resembling something Princely. “Loki.” It was Heimdall. “I apologise that my plan did not work, but listen to me one last time. Ask for the skin of the donkey.”

Finally, something he could work with. Odin would never kill the donkey: almost all of his riches came from the pestilential animal. If anything would work, it would be this. The prince grinned. “Well thought, old friend.”

Heimdall bowed his head, both agreement and thanks for the compliment. “Indeed. Leave now, Prince.”

Loki swaggered into the hall, seeing his father sitting at the throne almost immediately. Did the man ever leave the hall?

“Husband,” Odin greeted him. “I trust you have received the tunic. Is it as you wished?” Why did he bother to ask? The self-assured look on his face showed that he already knew that, yes, of course it was faultless.

“It is. However, before we marry, there is one last thing I must ask for,” Loki told him.

Odin frowned, brow creasing with disappointment and frustration. “I have already gotten you three tunics. How many more will you ask for? Do you doubt my commitment to you?”

Loki hesitated. “Do not misunderstand me; I have no doubts.” It was a good thing he was a well-practiced liar, or else the King may have taken it as the falsity it truly was.

The King gave him a long, assessing stare, eventually nodding, a way of telling him to ask for what he wanted.

Bracing himself for the denial he was sure he would get, the awkwardness it would bring, and the relief he would feel in spite of that, Loki said, “The skin of the ass.”

For a long time, neither man said anything. Odin wore a pained expression, seemingly torn; it was between the man he wished to marry, and the precious ass he held so near and dear. “I will get it for you immediately.”

The look of ease fell off Loki’s face as soon as he registered the words, exchanged for disbelief. “You- you will?” He winced internally at how bewildered he must have sounded. Wasn’t he supposed to be playing the role of ‘completely assured husband-to-be’? He plastered on a smile, trying to make it look less sardonic than it was.

“Yes. Only for you,” Odin told him. Loki tried to remember a time before the sight of his father had made his stomach turn, his lips twitch with a unique kind of disgust. It was a struggle.

“I am forever gracious,” Loki thanked him, though not particularly feeling thankful.

“It is of no consequence,” Odin blatantly lied.

The younger man gave him a tight smile and a stiff bow, exiting the room with haste, all illusions of happiness vanishing as soon as his back was turned.

***

The skin was given to Loki far sooner than he would have liked.

As soon as the servant who was given the task of presenting the skin- which was quite frankly revolting- left the young God’s quarters, Heimdall appeared, holding a simple iron dagger, hilt wrapped in leather, blade embellished with faint glyphs.

Heimdall handed the dagger to Loki, alongside an equally simple leather sheath, one which could attach to a belt. “Collect all of your possessions into your chest,” he told him. “As long as you carry this dagger with you, your chest will follow underground. If you tap this to the ground, it will be summoned.”

“Where am I going?” Loki asked him, not moving until he got an actual explanation.

“You are leaving Asgard. You will wear the donkey skin as a disguise,” Heimdall said, obviously not expecting any form of argument.

Though reluctant, Loki threaded the sheath onto his belt, and collected together some clothing and books. After a second or so of thought, he threw in the tunics his father had ordered to be made for him. The rather unfortunate reason for making for them did nothing to take away their beauty.

“Leave before dawn,” was the last thing Heimdall said before leaving.

***

Before sun rose, Loki left. He had told Thor of his plan to flee Asgard, and, though upset to hear that he may not see his brother again for a long while, he had pulled Loki in for a one-sided embrace, wishing him ‘good luck’ before releasing him.

And so he departed, wrapped in the rough skin, and armed with a superficial dagger. For at least a month he had travelled through the realms, his occasional attempts to wash himself almost completely ineffective.

Twice, Heimdall passed on messages to him: first telling him that the palace guards were looking for him, and later that they had given up. For a man who had been so enthusiastic about marrying him not so long ago, Odin gave up rather quickly. The abhorrence Loki harboured for the man was not unwarranted.

By the time Loki had found a suitable place to settle down, he himself wasn’t completely sure where he was, though he assumed he was somewhere in Midgard.

He spoke AllSpeak so the Midgardians could understand what he said, and stole gold from unsuspecting travellers, with which he bought food, and the occasional room to stay the night in. Usually just the food, though; as a Jötun, the cold had no effect on him. It was the heat which he reacted negatively to, though it was rare that it was ever warm enough to be uncomfortable in this area of Midgard- as all everything he had experienced so far supported his original assumption that it was Midgard.

Some time after Loki had lost count of the days that had passed, a dark haired woman interrupted him as he washed in a river. “Um, excuse me?” she protested, looking slightly annoyed with him. “Do you wanna tell me why you’re completely naked inside the palace grounds? Do you work here or something?”

He raised an uncaring brow, making no move to remove himself from the river, or to clothe himself. “Using the evidence you have been presented with, would you like to make an educated guess?” he enquired.

She sighed. “Well, I know your bathing, I was kinda meant why here?”

“Do you know any nearby rivers better suited to my needs?”

“Look, unless you work here, how ‘bout you leave?”

Loki ducked his head underwater, scrubbing the caked dirt out of his hair. It was an assertion of how much, no, he did not want to move.

The woman groaned. “Okay, what do I need to do to get you to leave?” she complained.

Loki thought about it for a few seconds. It had to be something which would present a suitable challenge for the woman, whilst also benefitting him. Gold would be a stupid thing to ask for- her fine dress showed she had enough of that- and that also ruled out things like clothes and food, since they were both accessible to her. “A job in the palace,” he decided.

“A job in the palace? No way. I can’t get you that,” she exclaimed, shaking her head.

Loki shrugged. “I guess I’ll just stay.”

“I could easily just get the guards on you. I don’t need to do anything for you,” she said, and proceeded to stand and wait for a response. Perhaps for him to leave, maybe just an insincere remark. Neither came.

She groaned. “Fine! I’ll get you a job as a maid or something.” Loki pretended not to be surprised that she hadn’t done as she had threatened. “I’m Darcy, by the way.”

Briefly, Loki considered telling her his real name, but decided against it. He said nothing instead.

***

He settled down into civilian life in the palace, still unsure about the details of his whereabouts, besides ‘far away from Asgard’, and ‘definitely somewhere in Midgard’. He had tried asking what realm they were in, but had been met only with blank looks.

The donkey skin had not been washed since he was given it; he did not know how long that was, but, judging from the horrendous state of the pelt, it was approaching a year. His hair was still oily and tangled, his face often smudged with dirt, but his clothes, which had been torn by thorns and wearing, had been replaced for the palace maids uniform.

The other palace workers jeered at him, mocked him for his unusual fashion decision, as though he wasn’t above such childish things as being hurt by words. He believed the Midgardians had a saying for it: sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.

Quite often, he would sneak into the palace library- Darcy had mentioned it to him once, and instantly regretted it when she saw the look on his face- and immerse himself in one of the hundreds of books housed there. He found himself particularly taken by the likes of Shakespeare and Jane Austen (though he refused to admit his fascination with the latter out loud).

Sometime mid-summer, Loki was hiding away from the heat with a leather-bound copy of Coriolanus, when he heard footsteps approaching the library. Whilst this had happened before, usually his superior hearing made him aware earlier. Alas, his love for the play had deafened him until the man- Loki assumed it a man, at least, judging from the heaviness of the footsteps- was too close for him to escape. Instead, he hurriedly closed the book, gracelessly shoving it back onto the shelf before concealing himself with magic.

One of the wooden doors cracked open, just enough for the strangely familiar figure of a well-dressed man to walk in. It was a second before Loki realised why the man was so recognisable to him; he was practically a doppelganger of Loki, the only differences between them being their eye colour, hair, and skin tone.

The man’s hair was short, slightly curly, and an appetising blonde, whilst Loki’s was straight, shoulder length, and black. The man’s eyes were blue instead of green, and his skin too tan and pigmented for him to look like Loki.

But apart from that, they were one and the same. Loki forgot all intentions of silently slipping out of the library while the intruder’s back was turned, finding himself filled with a narcissistic enthrallment towards his double. He stood mutely in the middle of the room, only moving in order to continue facing the man.

The man spent a long time browsing through the shelves, until he finally pulled out a well-read copy of Much Ado About Nothing. How reassuring that the man had a fantastic taste in books, as well as good looks. He looked as though he was about to sit and read it, but before he could, a slightly younger woman sprinted into the room, calling out an elongated, “Tom!”

So Tom was his name? How horribly Midgardian, how terribly mortal. It didn’t fit his spectacular face. Not at all. But Tom was just a contraction of the name Thomas- and, though still not worthy of him, Thomas was a far more suiting name. That was the name Loki would call him by.

The woman stood beside Thomas, dwarfed by his height, and told him, “Mum says you have to stop spending so much time in the library and join us at dinner for once.”

‘Mum’? His sister, perhaps. That would explain the similarity in eye and hair colour.

Thomas pulled a face. “I was just about to start reading this,” he sighed, putting it back on the shelf. His voice, too, sounded almost exactly like Loki’s, albeit far more gentle and with a seemingly permanent note of cheeriness.

“Oh, what a shame. It would only be the, what, hundredth time?” she mocked playfully, smiling. “C’mon. Dinner’ll be ready soon.”

Thomas nodded, smiling, following her bouncy step out of the library. The look of unguarded merriment on Thomas’s face was enchanting.

***

After that, Loki more of his spare time than he would like to admit following Thomas around the palace, learning more about what he enjoyed, what caused his brow to wrinkle, the sort of clothes he wore. It was stalking, and Loki didn't bother denying it to himself. He had done far more immoral things than stalk someone with the same body as him.

Though he wouldn't admit the connection to anyone- not even Darcy, to whom he had grown quite close- quite often the people he used his magic to scare or vex directly correlated with the people by whom Thomas was irked.

It wasn't long at all before the main cause of his fascination with Thomas stopped being the fact that they were near identical, and became more to do with his outstanding level of intelligence and humour. Multiple times, Loki had almost given away his presence with unbidden snorts of amusement at his impressions.

His infatuation was an inconvenience, one which compelled him to spend far too much of his spare time sitting high up in trees, staring down on Thomas as he read a book in the lower branches. During work, it was a more common occurrence than he would like to admit that his mind would digress from whatever task he had been set, instead trying to think of a word that could describe the extraordinary mortal. He was only able assemble long paragraphs of run-on sentences, enough to fill pages upon pages of parchment. It was hideously mundane. Mortal. Emotional. Illogical.

He scowled; this silly little obsession had to end.

He found a scrap of paper and a writing quill, upon which he scrawled, You have a most agreeable taste in literature, then slid it underneath the front cover of the novel he discovered on Thomas’s dressing table. Confronting the problem- better know by the name of Thomas- meant he wouldn't have to think what he might say to him, were they to speak, because this way he’d be safe in the knowledge that they had communicated. And, undoubtedly, the man would see that someone had not only stalked him, but also somehow broke into his personal quarters, in response to which he would think ‘shit, that’s creepy’, and dispose of the note.

There. It was all sorted. No need to waste his precious time with thoughts of unworthy mortals. Now, he could sit and read without his mind wandering off to places he would honestly rather avoid. Annoying parts of his mind that absently procured words far too serious and committed to be slapped crudely onto one-sided not-relationships.

***

As Loki would surely deny being a common occurrence, he was wrong. He was able to watch, silent, invisble, as Thomas opened his book in the library, note gliding to the floor slowly. Thomas watched it fall, bemused, as it came to a rest on the floor, about a foot away from him. He picked it up and read it, then looked around, god knows why- it was a written note, it's not like someone had to be close by to leave it in a book cover without him noticing. And yet Loki was nearby, unneccesarily so. To see the rejection in his face, he insisted to himself. Oh, if Darcy could see and hear him now.

Strangely, he didn't see the fear, or the discomfort, or whatever it was that mortals were supposed to show on their faces upon the realisation that someone might be stalking them, or creepily obsessed with them. Instead, he saw a gentle pink rise to his cheeks, as he had seen happen to so many other people so many times. As though this were flattery. Which, he though, it practically was.

Loki had to resist the urge to growl and hurt someone. Thomas was the most stupidly unpredictable mortal he had ever had the (dis)pleasure to know. Disdainful, he let his eyes follow Thomas's fleeting movements, dashing around looking for a quill. He found one and wrote below Loki's note. He was too far away (and Thomas was hunched over it too much, in an almost protective manner) for Loki to see what he wrote, but he saw him put it into the cover of the book again, for Loki to find later, and then began to read the book, a gentle upward curve to his lip and extra sparkle in his eyes remaining until he left, the god slipping out behind him, and possible for longer still. Loki wasn't sure whether to be flattered or disgusted.

Either way, a large portion of the day that remained was spent pulling pranks on people, Loki onlooking from various perches, smirking mirthlessly each time someone's day was ruined, or made even the slightest bit less enjoyable, by something he had caused. Darcy looked at him contemplatively when he saw her next, in a way that inexplicably reminded him of Heimdall, but only ever so briefly, quickly adopting a smile and gossiping aimlessly, not commenting upon him at all. He appreciated it more than he would ever admit, and remembered yet again why he had chosen her as his friend, and not anyone else.

***

It wasn't until the next day that he was reminded of the note the prince had replied to, and he made his way to his quarters, meandering invisisbly (he seemed to be invisible more often than not, recently, only really letting people see him when he did half-arsed attempts at his job, or when he was speaking to someone) in a way that was intended to let him come to the realisation that this was pathetic, and head back. He did the first part, at least, several times, but continued on anyway, not quite able to make himself care.

When he arrived, the room was empty, thankfully, and he was able to open the cover to discover the note in return to his own. And the same to you, whoever you are. Do you work here?

And, try as he might to resist the urge, he ended up with the quill in hand, and searching for another small piece of paper, as the other was already crammed with the few words written on it. He wrote that, yes, he did work here, and that he would ask the same of him, if it wasn't already obvious. He left it, once again, in the book cover, and was about to leave when he heard footsteps, leather boots thumping softly against a polished wooden floor, occasionally punctuated by a creak of a floorboard.

Cursing quietly, Loki stood beside the desk and forced his breathing to slow, become shallow and as good as inaudible to the human ear. Thomas entered the room, wasting no time before collapsing onto his bed with a huff and pulling off his boots, soon followed by all but his briefs. He walked over to the table, half-naked, and stood, hand resting on the cover of the book for ten long seconds before opening it, slow, as though any of this increased the likelihood of a note being left in the book. Now, Loki definitely felt flattered. Could almost blush, in fact, but he got the feeling that was more Thomas's forte.

A grin spread across Thomas's face, as though the sun didn't rise until he found a stalker's note addressed to him. Gods help him. Loki found himself caring less and less how unwise Thomas was for being happy to hear from him, though, and caring more and more about Thomas being happy to hear from him.

Thomas stayed in that place for a few precious seconds before going to lie on his bed, and Loki turned away, prepared to quietly leave as soon as Thomas fell into a deep enough sleep to not be woken by a door opening, when he heard a hitch of breath. He knew it wasn't his. He looked back at Thomas.

The man was sprawled on his back, one hand resting on his chest, gentle twisting his nipple, and the other- Loki had to use all of his will power not to moan, not to at least let his breathing grow heavier, but he forced himself to stand and quietly watch Thomas stroke down his naval, slip his hand into his briefs. It was peverted and wrong, even Loki knew that, despite the fact that his moral compass was askew. Loki didn't touch himself as he watched Thomas, the way his hand moved beneath the thin fabric. Not even when the man pushed away his last piece of clothing, took them off completely, threw them onto the floor uncaringly, cock now free of its constraints, curved upwards.

Thomas grabbed with one hand, the other still crawling up his chest. He was panting quietly, letting out the occasional whine as the hand on his cock twisted. Loki remained stood there, panicked and aroused, as Thomas threw his head back in one final moan and came.

Loki's breath hitched, controlled by his lust, and Thomas looked directly at him, without seeing him. The mortal looked embarrassed, covering his crotch with one hand, the other scrabbling to pick up his briefs and put them on.

He rose from the bed, still hardly dressed and hair rumpled, and ran to pick up a sword stashed under the desk. “Who are you? Show yourself!” he called, sounding slightly scared beneath his princely confidence.

Loki remained still, waiting for Thomas to drop his sword, resign himself to having imagined it. He didn't. Instead, he waved the sword infront of him, feeling for Loki's invisible form. It seemed strange that he instantly assumed 'invisible intruder', rather than 'hidden intruder', but his mind seemed to work in funny ways, and he wasn't exactly in a position to berate the man for his recurring stupidity. Especially since he was, in this case, correct in his assumption.

Thomas jabbed the sword forward, a sharp movement which lacked force, but still managed to jolt a gasp out of Loki as it hit him between the ribs. Thomas made a slightly frantic noise, then rectified it by putting his 'I am a strong leader who will be King one day' face on. “I said, show yourself!” he repeated, eyes narrowed.

Loki let out a long sigh, and let himself shimmer into view. Thomas gasped as Loki looked on, unamused.

“Who- what are you?” he asked.

“I am Loki, Prince of Asgard. I am a god,” he said, and for all he lo- liked Thomas, he was getting quite tired of seeing Thomas panic and then pretend he wasn't fazed, then repeating the same routine another ten to fifteen times. “I believe we've spoken,” he continued, directing a purposeful look towards the book.

And there he went again. 'Oh my god what's happening' followed by 'don't panic I'm not panicking I'm fine I'm stronger than you'.

“A god watched me-?” he asked, looking more confused than anything. “Wait- you work here? Are there many gods on Earth? Why did you watch _me_?”

Loki rose an eyebrow at the bombardment of questions, almost smiled at Thomas's resulting pinked cheeks, but answered them none the less. “Yes, yes, I'm the only god on Earth, to my knowledge, and that was... accidental.”

"Oh! Um, couldn't you have... teleported away? Or turned around, maybe?" He sounded embarrassed.

"I am unable to teleport," he answered, hoping if he just ignored the second part of the question, it would be forgotten.

"And I suppose turning around was out of the question because..."

"I didn't want to," he admitted rather begrudgingly.

"Are you attracted to me?" The blush had travelled high up on his cheeks, and he looked like he wanted to hide under a rock or maybe throw up.

"Well, we are near identical," Loki said, smirking. Thomas looked delightful like this.

"Do you... _like_ me, though?" he pushed. "I mean, I didn't know I was trading notes with a _god_ , but I guess I thought I might... ask whoever it was if I could meet them. And father is always saying I should marry soon, because I'm quite old not to be married and-"

Loki sighed. "I find you quite fascinating. By more than just the virtue that we share a body."

"Does that mean you would...?"

"I would consider it," he allowed. Thomas beamed, as though Loki had agreed to marry him, and stepped towards him slightly, made sure to lean in very slowly before placing a chaste kiss on his lips.

Loki still thought he was an idiot, perhaps more so now, but he put up with him. Darcy wiggled her eyebrows at him every time she saw them together, made jokes about how Loki was a princess now. He tended to just scowl and give her shoulder a shove now; he was used to it.

He only minded it when Thor had found out, thanks to some all-seeing guard, and seemed to genuinely believe Darcy when she said that he would become a princess. He congratulated Loki on that. Loki wondered how he had ever been surprised that he was adopted.

**Author's Note:**

> wow if you actually read all this thank you so much and congrats. kudos and comments would be appreciated. feel free to point out any errors/give constructive criticism. i really shouldve beta'd this.


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